The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  He had confirmed this on several occasions by breaking off in mid-sentence, only to find that she was unaware that he had stopped speaking. Asked what she was thinking of, she would look troubled and say, ‘Nothing’… until one evening, when that question had broken into her silent brooding so abruptly that she had been startled into an unguarded reply, and answered ‘Shushila.’

  It was hardly reasonable of Ash to hope that she would by now have stopped tormenting herself with thoughts of Shushila when he himself was unable to do so. But he had got up without a word and left the cabin, and half an hour later it had been Gul Baz and not Ash who had knocked on her door bringing the evening meal, for Ash had been otherwise occupied.

  He had taken his problems to Captain Stiggins, and fortified by the Captain's ferocious brandy, was engaged in pouring the whole story into that gentleman's sympathetic ear. ‘The trouble is that her sister has always come first with her right from the beginning,’ explained Ash bitterly. ‘I used to believe that I was the only one she really loved, and that it was only affection and a strong sense of duty that made her stay with Shu-shu. But it seems I was wrong. I tried to make her run away with me before, you know, but she wouldn't do it because of Shu-shu… God! how I came to hate the very sound of that name.’

  ‘Jealous, were you,’ nodded Red.

  ‘Of course I was. Wouldn't you have been, in my place? Dammit Red, I was in love with her. I still am. I always will be. And but for that sister of hers –!’

  ‘Well, now that the pore girl's dead, you've no call to be jealous of her any more ‘av you?’ put in Red soothingly.

  ‘Oh, yes I have, because even now – in fact now more than ever – she's coming between us. I tell you, Red, she might just as well be here on this ship, battening upon what little strength Juli has left, and weeping and whining for sympathy and attention like she used to do. There are times when I'm even ready to believe that there are such things as ghosts, and that hers has followed us here and is doing its damnedest to take Juli away from me.’

  ‘Don't be daft!’ snapped the Captain crossly. ‘I never 'eard such poppycock. Ghosts indeed! – whatever next?’ He pushed the bottle over to Ash and said: ‘Better 'av another good swig o' that, son. Won't do you no 'arm to get good n' bosky for a change an' drown yore sorrows, for it sounds to me as though you bin battenin' down yore 'atches too 'ard of late. It'll do you good to open 'em up and let some of the bad air out. It ain't sense to go a bottlin' things up until you gets jealous of a pore lass wots dead and gorn. T'ain't 'ealthy.’

  ‘It's not that,’ said Ash, re-filling his glass with an unsteady hand. ‘You don't understand, Red. It's because now that she's dead I'm afraid… I'm afraid –’ His teeth chattered against the rim of the glass as he gulped the raw spirit.

  ‘Afraid o' wot?’ demanded Red, frowning. ‘That yore Juli won't forget 'er sister? Wot's so bad about that? If she did you'd likely begin to think she was an 'ard 'earted piece, and that's the truth. You just give the pore girl a bit o' time, and you'll find you ain't got nothin' to be afraid of, for she's bound to stop grievin' one day.’

  Ash drained his glass and reached for the bottle again, observing impatiently that of course she would; and of course he didn't expect her to forget her sister. It was not that he was afraid of.

  ‘Wot then?’

  ‘That she won't be able to forget that it was I who killed Shushila.’

  ‘You wot!’ exclaimed Red, startled.

  ‘Didn't I tell you that? I shot her,’ said Ash.

  He explained how this had come about, and when he had finished Red breathed heavily for a few moments, and downed a further generous helping of brandy before replying. But his verdict when it came brought little comfort: ‘It's 'ard to know wot else you could 'ave done,’ declared Captain Stiggins thoughtfully. ‘But I see wot you mean. At the time like, all she'd be thinkin' of would be ‘ow she could save ‘er little sister from the pain of bein' roasted alive. But now that it's all over she's maybe blamin' ‘erself for not letting the lass ‘ave her own way – and you for playin' ‘angman, so to speak.’

  ‘Yes. That's what I'm afraid of. She seemed so set on it at the time. She begged me to do it. But now… now I don't believe she could have been in her right mind. She was half mad with grief, and thinking back I'm not sure I was quite sane myself. Perhaps none of us were… but it was far worse for her, because Shu-shu meant more to her than anyone else in the world and she couldn't bear the thought of what she must suffer. She wanted me to shoot her before the flames reached her, and I did. I shouldn't have done it and I've wished ever since that I hadn't, because I cheated her out of saint-ood. And now I'm afraid that Juli has begun to find that she can't look at me without remembering that it was I who killed her darling Shu-shu.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ retorted Red inelegantly.

  ‘Oh, I don't mean that she blames me for doing it. She knows damned well I only did it for her, and that if it had been up to me I wouldn't have dreamed of risking all our lives by hanging around waiting to shoot the wretched girl. But however clearly she may see that with her head, she knows in her heart that I didn't give a damn about Shu-shu – and that makes a difference.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Red reflectively. ‘If you'd 'ad a fondness for the lass and done it for that reason – for love as you might say – it wouldn't 'ave mattered s'much… you shootin' 'er.’

  ‘That's it. But then I wasn't fond of her. You'll say because I was jealous of her, but it was more than that: I resented the hold she had over Juli, and now I think Juli is probably remembering that, and adding it to the rest and finding that in spite of herself it has changed her feelings for me. One can't really blame her, for though I still don't see what else I could have done, I've never stopped regretting that I shot that damned girl – and if I can feel like that, why shouldn't Juli feel equally mixed up about it? Oh, God, what a mess it all is! Let's open another bottle, Red – I'm going to take your advice and get drunk.’

  They had both got drunk: Red rather less so than Ash, by reason of having a harder head. And either the advice had been good, or else the dictum that confession is good for the soul had proved to be sound, because afterwards Ash certainly felt more relaxed and less apprehensive about the future, though he did not again make the mistake of asking Anjuli what she was thinking of. She was still painfully thin; and very pallid, which Ash put down to the airless heat of Red's cabin. He was sure that once they were married and he could coax her out onto the open deck and into the fresh air, her health was bound to improve, and with it her state of mind.

  They had been married two hours after the shores of Sind faded from sight and the Morala's bows were ploughing towards Ras Jewan and Chahbar. The ceremony had taken place at 2.30 in the afternoon, in the cramped little saloon, the witnesses being the Mate, Angus McNulty (who hailed from Dundee and admitted cautiously that he “might be a Presbyterian”), and an old friend of Red's, one Hyem Ephraim, an elderly Jew from Cutch who had business interests in Persia and had arranged to sail with Captain Stiggins to Chahbar. Red himself claimed to be a ‘free thinker’ – whatever that meant – but he had dignified the occasion by wearing his best suit and speaking in a voice of such portentous gravity that Gul Baz, who had watched the brief ceremony from the doorway, had been convinced that the Morala's Captain must, in private life, be a particularly wise and holy guru.

  Gul Baz, a pious Mohammedan, had been full of misgivings. But he had not voiced them, for it was too late for that. It had been too late from the day that the Hakim from Karidkote and his fat servant, Manilal, had driven up to the Sahib's bungalow in a hired tonga and he, Gul Baz, had failed to send them away. This Hindu widow was not at all the sort of wife that he hadd expected his Sahib to choose, and he did not approve of mixed marriage any more than Koda Dad Khan – or Mr Chadwick. Nor did he look forwar to explaining to Koda Dad and his sons how this had come about, or the part that he himself had played in it; though how he could have refused hi
assistance, or prevented his Sahib from leaving for Bhithor in the first place he did not know. Nevertheless, today he put up his own private prayers for the safety, well-being and future happiness of the bridegroom and his chose bride, and petitioned the All-Wise to grant them long life and many stron sons.

  Anjuli, once a devout Hindu, had not prayed for several years, having come to believe either that the gods did not exist, or that for reasons of their own possibly because of the foreign blood in her veins – they had turned their faces from her. She did not pray now, and she wore the bourka in place of a wedding dress, which struck no one there as strange, since Western brides traditionally wore white and went veiled to the altar, while in the East a widow's weeds are not black but white.

  Ash had cut a slit at one side of the tent-like garment so that he could take her hand, and as all else was hidden by the bourka, that small, square hand was all that the wedding guests saw of the bride. Yet strangely enough each one of them, on that evidence alone, was immediately convinced that Lieutenant Pelham-Martyn's bride was a woman of rare beauty and charm. They were also convinced that she spoke and understood English, for Ash had taught her the few words she must say, and when the time came she spoke them in a low clear voice that copied his intonation so exactly that anyone who did not know her story might well have supposed that the cheap cotton bourka disguised some well-bred Victorian miss.

  Ash had not thought to buy a ring in Ahmadabad, and as he did not wear a signet ring, he had removed part of his watch-chain and joined it into a slender circle of gold links. It was this that he now put on Anjuli's finger: 'With this ring, I thee wed…’ The brief ceremony that made her his wife had taken less than ten minutes, and when it was over she had returned to her cabin, leaving him to drink the wine that Red had provided, and accept congratulations and good wishes.

  The day had been uncomfortably hot, and even with the sea wind blowing, the temperature in the saloon was over ninety degrees; but it would drop towards evening, and when darkness fell the poop deck would be a cool and pleasant place to spend the first night of the honeymoon – always provided that Juli would consent to leave her cabin.

  Ash hoped that it would not be too difficult to persuade her, for he had no intention of sweltering in it himself. It was high time that Juli stopped brooding over the death of Shushila and began to look forward instead of back, and to realize that there was nothing to be gained by continuing to mourn. Mourning could not bring the dead back to life, and it was not as though she had anything to reproach herself for. She had done everything she could for Shu-shu, and she should take comfort from that and have the courage to put the black years and the beloved ghost of her little sister behind her.

  As a first step, he had asked Red to give them the use of the poop deck above his cabin, and that good-natured man had not only agreed to do this, but had also arranged for the deck to be screened off with canvas for greater privacy, and provided with a small awning that would afford shade by day and protection from the dew by night.

  Ash had expected the bride to put up a certain amount of opposition to his plans for her emancipation, and been prepared to coax and persuade her into acceptance. But that had not been necessary. Anjuli had agreed to spend the greater part of her days on deck rather than in the cabin. But with a listlessness that conveyed such a total lack of interest that he had had the sudden and startled impression that her thoughts were elsewhere, and that the coming night – their first as man and wife – held no special significance for her, but was merely another night; so what did it matter whether she spent it on deck with him or by herself in the cabin? For a terrible moment he had actually been afraid that she would, if given the choice, prefer the latter, and he had not dared ask her for fear of what she might say.

  His confidence in his ability to make her forget the past and be happy again evaporated, and he found himself wondering if she still had any love for him at all, or if the events of the past few years had worn it away as the wind and water will wear away an apparently solid rock. All at once he did not know, and terrified by the doubt he turned from her and stumbled out of the cabin, to spend the remainder of the afternoon alone on the poop deck, watching the slow-moving shadows of the sails and dreading the coming night because of the possibility that Juli might reject him – or submit to him without love, which would be far worse.

  Towards sundown the breeze had freshened a little, tempering the salty heat of the day. And as the sea darkened and the sky turned from green to amethyst and then to indigo, the foam under the cut-water began to glimmer with phosphorus, and the stretched canvas showed iron-grey against a brilliant expanse of stars. Gul Baz, wooden-faced, brought a tray of food to the poop deck and later spread a wide, padded resai on the planks below the awning, added a few pillows, and observed in a voice devoid of all expression that the Rani-Sahiba – the Memsahib, he should have said – had already eaten, and had the Sahib any further orders?

  The Sahib had none; and Gul Baz, having served coffee in a brass cup, went away taking the almost untouched tray with him. The ship's bell sounded the watch, and from somewhere below and amidships Red, who had been celebrating with the Mate and old Ephraim, bellowed up a convivial good-night to which McNulty added something that Ash did not catch, but that appeared to amuse his companions. The sound of their laughter faded and not long afterwards the murmur of voices from the after-deck where the lascars gathered of an evening also ceased, and the night was silent except for the swish of the sea and the monotonous creak and croon of timber and hemp and taut canvas.

  Ash sat listening to those sounds for a long time, reluctant to move because he still did not know how his wife would greet him, and he dreaded a rebuff. Today had seen the fulfilment of a dream, and this night should have been the crowning moment of his life. Yet here he sat, racked with doubts and tormented by indecision – and afraid as he had never been afraid before, because if Juli were to turn from him it meant the end of everything. The final and permanent triumph of Shushila.

  As he hesitated, putting off the moment of decision, he suddenly remembered Wally declaiming lines written two centuries earlier by one of his many heroes, James Graham, Marquis of Montrose – ‘He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That puts it not unto the touch, To win or lose it all…’

  Ash smiled wryly, and lifting a hand in a gesture of acknowledgement said aloud, as though his friend were actually present: ‘All right. I'll go down. But I'm afraid my deserts are minimal.’

  The little cabin was brightly lit, and after the cool freshness of the night air unbearably hot and strongly tainted with the smell of lamp oil. Anjuli was standing by the open port-hole looking out across the shimmering beauty of the phosphorescent sea, and she had not heard the latch lift. Something in her pose – in the tilt of her head and the line of the long black plait of hair – reminded him so strongly of the child Kairi-Bai that almost without knowing it, he spoke to her by that name, whispering it very softly: ‘Kairi –’

  Anjuli whipped round to face the door, and for the flash of a second there was a look in her eyes that could not be mistaken. It was gone immediately: but not before Ash had seen it and recognized it for what it was – stark terror. The same look that he had once seen in the eyes of Dilasah Khan, thief, traitor and sometime trooper of the Guides, when they had cornered him at last in a cleft of the hills above Spin Khab. And in Biju Ram's on a moonlight night three years ago, and more recently in the terrified gaze of five bound and gagged wretches in the chattri at Bhithor.

  To see it now in Anjuli's was like receiving a sudden and savage attack from a totally unexpected quarter, and the impact of it made his heart miss a beat and drained the blood from his face.

  Anjuli's own face was grey with shock and she said with stiff lips: ‘Why did you call me that! You have never…’ Her voice failed her and she put her hands to her throat as though there was a constriction there that prevented her breathing.

  ‘I suppose – because
you reminded me of her,’ said Ash slowly. ‘I'm sorry. I should have remembered that you did not like me calling you by that name. I didn't think.’

  Anjuli shook her head, and said disjointedly: ‘No. No, it was not that… I don't mind… It was only… You spoke so softly, and I thought… I thought it was…’

  She faltered to a stop, and Ash said: ‘Who did you think it was?’

  ‘Shushila,’ whispered Anjuli.

  The rustling, swishing water beyond the port-hole seemed to take up the lilting syllables of that name and repeat it over and over again, Shushila, Shushila, Shushila – And without warning, rage exploded in Ash, and he slammed the door shut behind him and crossing the cabin in two strides, gripped his wife's shoulders and shook her with a violence that forced the breath from her lungs.

  ‘You will not’, said Ash, speaking between clenched teeth, ‘say that name to me again. Now or ever! Do you understand? I'm sick and tired of it. While she was alive I had to stand aside and see you sacrifice yourself and our whole future for her sake, and now that she's dead it seems that you are just as determined to wreck the rest of our lives by brooding and moping and moaning over her memory. She's dead, but you still refuse to face that. You won't let her go, will you?’

  He pushed Anjuli away with a savage thrust that sent her reeling against the wall for support, and said gratingly: ‘Well, from now on you're going to let the poor girl rest in peace, instead of encouraging her to haunt you. You're my wife now, and I'm damned if I'm going to share you with Shu-shu. I'm not having two women in my bed, even if one of them is a ghost, so you can make up your mind here and now; myself or Shushila. You can't have us both. And if Shu-shu is still so much more important to you than I am, or you blame me for killing her, then you had better go back to your brother Jhoti and forget that you ever knew me, let alone married me.’